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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24410011">Give and Take</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_Menace/pseuds/Lavender_Menace'>Lavender_Menace</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>LazyTown</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Banter, Blood and Injury, Crime Fighting, Crimes &amp; Criminals, Friends With Benefits, Friends With Benefits To Lovers, Friendship, Gratuitous Gymnastics, Gun Violence, Gymnastics, M/M, Magic, Magical Glanni Glæpur, Minor Original Character(s), Morally Ambiguous Character, Murder Mystery, Recreational Drug Use, Serial Killers, Shitty Hotel Rooms, Team Up, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Yearning, elf Íþróttaálfurinn, elves behaving badly</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:21:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,551</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24410011</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_Menace/pseuds/Lavender_Menace</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Íþróttaálfurinn walks into a bar (and recruits his frenemy with benefits to solve a mystery)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Glanni Glæpur/Íþróttaálfurinn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Give</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>All characterizations are a mix of fanon and canon (edited by my gorgeous fiancée who Is Not In This Fandom)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Íþróttaálfurinn finally caught up with Glanni at a rundown old casino on the outskirts of Lake Avarice City. The building was made from crumbling yellow brick and filled with several half-broken slot machines, wobbly card tables, and cigarette smoke. Glanni had been hunched over at the bar wearing a crop top and ripped jeans, sharing a hand-rolled cigarette with a woman who wore flaking makeup over her desperate eyes. The two of them leaned towards each other and talked quietly over the bustle of gambling and static-y country music. They passed the rolled paper between them and stained it with two contrasting shades of lipstick.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a moment’s pause at the door to take in the scene, Íþróttaálfurinn strode towards them, laying a hand heavily over Glanni’s shoulder and looking past the conman over to his companion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hallo!” He smiled, nodding his head in cheerful deference as he tried to put the woman at ease—if he’d felt a surge of jealousy at her closeness to Glanni he quickly quashed it down. He was here for business, and likely so was she. “I need to speak to your friend here, I’ve been looking for him for quite some time.” Íþróttaálfurinn was prepared to use force if necessary to get Glanni somewhere private where they’d be able to talk, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>only </span>
  </em>
  <span>if necessary.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman glanced at Glanni’s face, which had drawn into a grimace. Quickly the criminal nodded and she left, hopping off the barstool and quickly snatching the cigarette from Glanni’s bony fingers as she left.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Íþróttaálfurinn frowned as he watched her leave, noting the red stained bandage around her leg that peeked out from under her black pleather skirt. She reminded him of Glanni.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You could have waited until I went back to my motel room,” the conman rasped, looking mournfully at his smoke stained hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If I had, you would have slipped away again somehow.” That’s what had happened in the last town, and although Íþróttaálfurinn favored being polite if possible, he was not above interrupting if it meant that he wouldn’t have to hunt his antagonistic friend down again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They were friends, for all that neither of them quite knew how that had happened. Over time their goals had shifted from those of enemies to those who sought a common end and then back again like the changing of the tides, and at some point within the ripples they had come to enjoy one another’s company. By the time that Íþróttaálfurinn caught up with Glanni in Lake Avarice City he had come to rely upon the conman as a valuable informant on the happenings of the criminal underworld, if not as someone who was easy to find.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From the look in his eyes it was easy to see that Glanni knew that he’d come to him for answers. The conman had always been able to tell when a visit was for business rather than pleasure. Íþróttaálfurinn smiled at him tightly—his expression friendly but not quite happy—and led him out the door by his elbow with all the grace of a courting gentleman. Somewhere by the slot machines a gambler wolf-whistles at their departure.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So what do you want?” Glanni asked, not hesitating for a moment once they were out of earshot of the casino. The heels of his shoes were quiet against the pavement despite their height; the two of them were nearly silent as they made their way west out of the city. Íþróttaálfurinn sighed softly before responding.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you heard anything from Busy City lately?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nope,” the criminal replied shortly as he pulled a half-crushed box from his pocket and pulled out another hand-rolled cigarette, the brown paper crumpled and messy. Frowning, Íþróttaálfurinn slowed and turned to face Glanni.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you high?” The conman stopped, pulled out a steel lighter, and lit the rolled paper, taking a deep drag as if to spite him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You asked the last question,” he teased. “It’s my turn now, Elf.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine,” Íþróttaálfurinn huffed, “ask away.” Glanni could be frustrating but Íþróttaálfurinn was willing enough to slide back into their usual game. Their conversations often went back and forth like this, ebbing and flowing. Whether they were allies or enemies, they always operated on a steady give and take.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Glanni bit his lip, looking pensive. Íþróttaálfurinn wondered if he’d even had a question in mind when he’d pushed back against him. Still, their game was on and the only next step was to wait patiently for Glanni’s query.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How did you find me?” He asked, after taking a long drag and exhaling a cloud of foul smelling smoke through purple-painted lips. Íþróttaálfurinn laughed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There was a trail—wealthy socialites reporting robberies who were too embarrassed to explain how the thief had gotten into their bedrooms in the first place. Some tried to lie and claim that they weren’t at home, but every crime followed your pattern.” He smiled slightly. “And so I followed the trail to you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you high?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked again, tilting his head slightly as he watched Glanni smoke.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not yet. I’m working on it.” The conman grinned, lopsided and smug. “I only really got one hit in before you dragged me away, and Eva stole my joint.” The woman with the bandages must have been Eva. Íþróttaálfurinn wondered if he should follow up on her later but decided not to meddle—chances were that she wouldn’t accept his help even if she needed it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well please stop, I don’t want to watch and I’d rather not smell like it.” The hero was fairly certain that Glanni was smoking pot, but with Glanni you could never tell. It worried him to see his friend treating his health so cavalierly, but he knew better than to dive into that conversation again when he already had something that he wished to discuss. Glanni seemed to sense that Íþróttaálfurinn meant to get back to business because he pinched the joint out and in the next moment asked—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why did you ask about Busy City earlier? Do you know something that I don’t?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“People are being killed—girls, women,” the hero replied shortly. Íþróttaálfurinn glanced around them, wondering who could be listening in from the shadows. “The method is atypical, almost like assassinations, but the girls…  As far as anyone can tell they’re just normal civilians with very little in common.” When he had read the initial report, his first thought had been that perhaps it had been drug related, or even some sort of hate crime, but the more he investigated the more these very normal women’s deaths seemed to reflect political assassinations.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In a low voice Íþróttaálfurinn explained that the women had all been killed after dark. At festivals. Inside bars. Always at large, loud gatherings and always with a single long-range bullet through the head. It appeared to be the work of a trained sniper who had access not only to a long gun but a silencer. Each time no witnesses had been able to see the killer or hear the shot over the noise and chaos of the setting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I need you to come to Busy City with me. I don’t have the contacts necessary to investigate this quickly, and I want this over with before anyone else gets hurt.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well of course not.” Glanni frowned. “You have the subtlety of an ox.” The conman looked contemplative; he rolled the extinguished joint in his hand, smearing ash along his fingers. “What’s in it for me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s a cash reward,” Íþróttaálfurinn said. He knew better than to appeal to Glanni’s morality. It was apparent that his friend had standards, but his code of ethics was both loose and decidedly dark gray. Anything that even implied that Glanni was virtuous would cause him to respond with dismissal and theatrical disgust. Over time, Íþróttaálfurinn had learned that allying with Glanni required a certain amount of coercion, but it could be done.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now you’re speaking my language.” His interest was piqued. “How much?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Two million króna.” The reward was a bit high, even for a serial killer, but the case had been going on for long enough that the local police force had become desperate. Desperate enough to seek out help not only from the Numbered Heroes but the public at large.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As Glanni and Íþróttaálfurinn talked they approached a seedy motel on the edge of town, and they paused outside a door at the very end of the building as Glanni reached into the pocket of his jeans, fumbling for the key to his room. Íþróttaálfurinn peered at him through the dim yellow light of the streetlamps. His friend’s eyes were weary, caked in smudged flaking makeup that did little to hide the deep bags underneath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From what he’d gathered from his own sources, Glanni had been on the move a lot recently, hitting one wealthy house after the next. Once upon a time Íþróttaálfurinn might have confronted him about that, done his best to bring Glanni to justice, but now he simply wondered where the money was going. He hoped that by leading Glanni to bounty hunting he’d be able to nudge his friend towards a more honest living, but wondered if the conman would ever have the willpower to pass up the instant gratification of crime. Both occupations were dangerous, but he worried that constantly being on the run would slowly drain Glanni dry, until one day his friend would slip up and make a fatal mistake. If he could find a legal occupation, then at least he wouldn’t have to constantly worry about shaking law enforcement from his trail.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The key slipped into the lock, and after a moment of rattling, the lock turned and Glanni opened the door, gesturing for Íþróttaálfurinn to follow him inside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before the door was even properly closed, the criminal had kicked off his shoes and thrown them across the room. Íþróttaálfurinn winced as they hit the wall shared with the neighboring room. Glanni flopped onto the bed gracelessly and slouched against the headboard, leaving Íþróttaálfurinn to shift from foot to foot in an attempt to resist the urge to jog in place.  He hated rooms like these, with dirty floors and no space to exercise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So will you do it?” the hero prompted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll think about it,” Glanni replied as he stretched his arms high above his head, exposing more of his torso as his top pulled up. Íþróttaálfurinn glanced away, feeling the tips of his ears flush under his hat. Glanni laid back languidly, his eyes meeting Íþróttaálfurinn’s. “Do you have a place to sleep or are you planning on sleeping on that deathtrap you call a balloon?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hadn’t put much thought into it, I was focused on finding you.” He hoped his blush didn’t show in his face. Thankfully the room was dim.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well now you’ve found me—way past your bedtime, mind you,” Glanni teased again, his wide lazy grin showcasing where his smoking had worn the purple lipstick from his face. To the hero he was as beautiful as he was ragged, and the raggedness was half his charm. No amount of elegance or poise could ever match up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he was here for business, not pleasure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I did. You know you don’t make it easy? It took me nearly a week to track you down.” Íþróttaálfurinn was probably the only person in the world who could have found Glanni so quickly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well I’d offer you a drink but the only thing you could have here or from the bar is water.” Grin replaced with a grimace, Glanni sticks out his tongue in disgust at the very thought.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t need to give me anything.” He paused. Glanni patted the spot on the bed beside him and on an impulse Íþróttaálfurinn sat down, feeling the warmth of his friend’s body against his own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” Glanni said simply, leaning over him, “but I’m selfish, and for some reason I like you.” Íþróttaálfurinn’s breath caught in his chest as Glanni moved closer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know that if I give you just a little, you’ll let me take twice as much”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Up and Away</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The boys make a decision, and get moving. Íþróttaálfurinn is a menace, Glanni cares</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the working title for this chapter was "three small chapters in a trenchcoat" and it exists to get us from point A to point B while establishing some relationship dynamics...and because I thought it was funny </p>
<p>once again edited by the love of my life who saves me from terrible awful wording and abysmal punctuation</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Glanni woke much earlier than he’d have liked, and to a much emptier bed. Morning light filtered in through the room’s half-broken blinds casting the mess he’d made in twisted shadows. Across the room he heard the shower running, and light spilled out from under the bathroom door. Despite his exhaustion he smiled slightly, privately, before pressing his face into the pillow that Íþróttaálfurinn had used. If he’d been able he would have fallen back asleep right there, but the light and the sounds were too much. Instead, he stretched languidly and closed his eyes, content to relax for a few more minutes. He was sure that Íþróttaálfurinn would bother him the minute that he finished with his shower anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The hero in question exited the shower whistling and opened the door to let out a cascade of steam as he towel dried his hair. Glanni opened one eye to peer at the elf, his gaze tracing the edges of the towel slung around the other man’s waist. The view was almost worth the noises that accompanied it. Almost. It seemed like Íþróttaálfurinn liked pop music if his continued whistling was any indication. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rolling over, Glanni threw the pillow at the elf’s dripping back and groaned dramatically when Íþróttaálfurinn whipped around to catch the projectile. The sun danced across his face as he smiled at Glanni, and Glanni promptly decided to pull the covers up over himself and give sleep another shot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah! You’re awake!” Íþróttaálfurinn grinned, still drying himself off as he spoke. Glanni groaned again and buried himself further under the covers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No I’m not. I’m asleep and this is a nightmare.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine words from the man who invited me in.” The hero flopped down onto the bed, shaking the mattress on its rickety frame and startling Glanni into sitting up. “You knew that this would happen.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe I didn’t mean for you to stay.” The conman’s words were as empty as his stomach. He wondered if he still had a bag of chips in his duffel bag. "You're dripping on me, you menace."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They went for breakfast at an awful seedy diner less than a mile from Glanni's motel. The floors were gritty beneath their feet and the conman flirted shamelessly with their waitress over a pile of syrup soaked pancakes. Íþróttaálfurinn spent a decent portion of their meal drinking weak tea and glaring at Glanni who had somehow charmed his way into a free side of bacon. Still, it was clear who commanded most of his attention. Glanni glanced repeatedly at the hero through their meal, alternately teasing him and pulling faces at Íþróttaálfurinn's wilted fruit salad. Eventually the conversation ceased its playful ebb and flow and Íþróttaálfurinn turned the conversation once again to business.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"So will you help me catch this killer?" Íþróttaálfurinn asked, fiddling with the handle of his mug. Glanni watched his strong fingers caress the ceramic, allowing his eyes to linger on the small scars that dotted the hero's knuckles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knew better than to say yes. His little burglaries were dangerous, but not overly so. He knew what he was doing. It certainly wasn’t as dangerous as seeking out a confrontation with a trained sniper, someone who had already killed a number of people. But every time Íþróttaálfurinn asked him to do something it became harder to say no. The further their friendship pushed, the more willing he was to put up with the elf’s dangerous schemes. Glanni knew that, in his own awkward backwards way, Íþróttaálfurinn thought that he was helping him. But even the money—and the relative legality—that the bounty provided could not adequately compensate for the fact that the job was dangerous. Too dangerous for Glanni to risk without further incentive. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unfortunately, if Glanni refused, Íþróttaálfurinn would likely try to catch the killer on his own. Without Glanni’s connections it would be virtually impossible for the hero to seek out information from the criminal underground of Busy City, and more than likely Íþróttaálfurinn would end up giving himself away before ultimately getting killed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll do it.” Glanni tried to look sly but was anxious enough that it came out looking more awkward than mischievous. He comforted himself with the fact that the cash reward would at least mean that he’d be able to slow down for a while. The rate at which he had been taking jobs was wearing him thin, and he’d relish a few weeks to simply take off somewhere and be lazy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But,” he continued, leaning across the table to be closer to Íþróttaálfurinn as he spoke, “If we’re going to do this, you need to let me work without interference. No lurking behind me and glaring at people, no trying to arrest my contacts.” That could only end badly. “Honestly it would probably be best if you let me do my part of the legwork alone while you deal with law enforcement so that I won’t have to.” Glanni felt himself frown. The less often he spoke to the cops in Busy City the better. He’d had enough run-ins with that department to fill an entire file and any interaction between him and the force was usually fraught.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Done.” Íþróttaálfurinn smiled, and the room seemed suddenly brighter. Glanni felt himself relax slightly despite himself. If the elf was confident in their plan, then maybe he could be at least a little less paranoid. Maybe if they played their cards right they wouldn't both die horribly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Breakfast goes quickly from that point on, their conversation vacillating between planning and cheerful banter. At one point Glanni breaks a piece of his bacon into pieces and makes a game of tossing it across the table for Íþróttaálfurinn to catch in his mouth. Eventually the hero began to egg Glanni on, until the conman rose to the challenge and threw the final piece high into the air, which in turn had prompted Íþróttaálfurinn to leap after it. The backflip had probably been unnecessary but Glanni had been the cause of worse scenes in nicer restaurants, and Íþróttaálfurinn had left the waitress a good tip on their way out. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They left Lake Avarice City at noon. Glanni had whined about taking the balloon, but when the hero unceremoniously chucked his duffle bag into the basket, the conman begrudgingly hauled himself up after his possessions and into the aircraft. Íþróttaálfurinn followed, vaulting into the basket with practiced ease and swinging his body over Glanni’s head, causing him to curse viciously. Once inside, Glanni tucked his long legs up to his chest and curled into himself like a frightened spider, glaring at Íþróttaálfurinn across the cramped rattan basket. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hate you.” Glanni didn’t hate him, but he did hate heights, being trapped in small uncomfortable spaces, and methods of travel that relied almost entirely on intangible means—like wind, or magic—all of which traveling by Íþróttaálfurinn’s balloon just so happened to entail.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just don’t fall out again.” Íþróttaálfurinn shrugged, seemingly unbothered by his friend’s grumbling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That was one time!” It had also been an unfortunate side-effect of Glanni attempting to steal the balloon during one of his many daring escapes, but neither the hero nor Glanni brought that up. The conman was sure that if he’d had a few more minutes to figure out how the aircraft’s propulsion worked, he wouldn’t have upended the basket and he’d have made a clean escape. Íþróttaálfurinn was equally sure that if Glanni hadn’t tumbled from the basket he’d have crash landed in short order. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Taking a deep breath, Glanni felt himself relax. Talking to Íþróttaálfurinn had taken the edge off of his nerves. The two of them lapsed into silence as the wind swept up and carried them east towards Busy City. Glanni looked at his friend contemplatively, he wondered how a person who so rarely stood still on the ground could travel so frequently in such a tiny craft. The elf was seated across from him in the basket with his legs crossed in full lotus and his back facing the rattan wall breathing slowly and evenly. It was almost as though he was meditating. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a moment’s thought, Glanni lowered his legs from his chest and tried to mimic Íþróttaálfurinn’s position. He pulled his left foot on top of his right leg, but when he tried to force the other foot into place, fire erupted in his hip. He inhaled sharply through clenched teeth, biting back a pained cry before giving up, falling instead into a more relaxed cross legged position. It was far from the sort of stretching that he was used to. Despite himself, Glanni couldn’t help but be impressed by the flexibility of Íþróttaálfurinn’s hips, and wondered if there were any creative ways that the two of them would be able to make use of that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Discarding that thought before he got too carried away, Glanni carefully opened up his senses, matching his breathing to the hero’s. The wind whipped around them, cutting through the loose weave of the basket and blowing his hair around. Glanni kept breathing, kept looking. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Every fiber of the basket was laced with magic, every thread of the balloon, every strand that made up the ropes. It was breathtaking and subtle, ancient and remarkably elvish. It was also not what Glanni was looking for. He concentrated on the elf sitting in front of him and found what he sought; Íþróttaálfurinn’s magic was a heavy gold, and as old fashioned as the balloon. Rather than whirlpooling inward in meditation his magic was stretching out into the balloon, intertwining with the structure of the aircraft itself like an enormous marionette and steering it as surely as a hand upon a rudder. It was no wonder that Glanni hadn't been able to take control, he’d been focusing entirely upon the mechanical components of the craft. He still didn’t quite understand how to control a normal balloon, let alone this elvish monstrosity. Maybe someday he could trick Íþróttaálfurinn into teaching him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Íþróttaálfurinn could be teaching him now, they had talked while traveling via balloon before. The elf must have been capable of multitasking, at least on short jaunts. Glanni had never accompanied him on a long trip like this. Previously, he'd only ever been brought aboard to either escape imminent peril, or in handcuffs on his way to police custody. This was just boring. He didn't even have any cuffs to try to pick his way out of. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead he simply looked at Íþróttaálfurinn. Last night, in the light of the streetlamps, the elf had seemed powerful and solid, like a hero cut from stone in some ancient temple. Throughout their conversation Glanni’s eyes had lingered upon him, drawn in by Íþróttaálfurinn’s presence. He was as impressive as any myth come to life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now, as he sat cross legged and still, he should have seemed even more like a statue, but the light of the sun softened his features. The hero was wearing his hat but his wavy blond hair still spilled from underneath it, brushing the skin of his muscular neck. Even his stupid mustache moved slightly in the breeze. Thin white scars criss-crossed their way along the bare skin of his arms. Some were faded until they were nearly invisible and overlaid with newer shallow marks. Íþróttaálfurinn’s armor would conjure the image of a statue no matter what kind of light shone upon it, but Glanni assumed that that was intentional. The hero’s entire costume was evocative of some kind of ancient warrior. He didn’t know enough about history to be able to tell what culture the hero had pulled the imagery from but it was classic enough to get the point across to even the lowest of laymen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The best feature of Íþróttaálfurinn’s appearance—in Glanni's humble opinion—was his nose. At one point it had been wide and straight, but after an encounter with Glanni, a few totally unaffiliated bank robbers, and a very clever trip wire, it had acquired a nice little bump on the bridge just beneath the hero's eyes. Glanni supposed that he ought to feel guilty about that now that the two of them were supposedly friends, but he was far too pleased with himself to regret the injury. Who else could have been genius enough to string a tripwire up at eye level, predicting that a certain hero wouldn't be able to resist leaping around like a madman? Really, the reminder of Íþróttaálfurinn’s broken nose was better than any trophy. It also made his face more distinctive.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A strong gust tipped the balloon's basket, causing it to weave back and forth slightly in the open air. Glanni's breath caught in this throat. Across from him, Íþróttaálfurinn opened one eye as if to check on him. The conman merely gulped, keeping his eyes fixed on the wall behind Íþróttaálfurinn’s head. As the hero closed his eye again, Glanni fished his pack of smokes from his pocket and somehow withdrew a pristine tobacco cigarette from the crushed box. He stuffed the box back into his jacket and pulled out his lighter with shaking hands. He lit the cigarette quickly and drew in a breath before exhaling a plume of smoke straight into Íþróttaálfurinn’s face. Rather than responding verbally, the elf merely frowned and scooted to the side, moving so that he was no longer downwind. From his expression it was clear that the hero thought Glanni’s smoking was foul. Glanni rolled his eyes and copied the hero, sliding over into a corner. Smoke still filled the basket, but it was less heavy and Íþróttaálfurinn gave him this single comfort without objection.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Foul or not the habit was calming, and Glanni figured that in a situation like this he’d take what he could get. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>tune in next time for Busy City! And some semblance of a plot!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Here and Now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Our duo makes it to Busy City, and while Glanni sets to work Íþróttaálfurinn muses</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks again to the love of my life who helped to force this chapter into existence</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Busy City lived up to its name. The traffic was horrendous. Íþróttaálfurinn had always hated large cities, and the towering buildings and packed streets of this particular locale did nothing to endear it to him. The entire city always seemed poised between order and chaos as the population navigated throughout their lives with a frantic tension that grated on his nerves. Glanni, of course, fit right in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From the moment they touched down his friend had seemed energized, nearly leaping out of the basket after Íþróttaálfurinn in his haste to touch solid ground again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So where are we staying?” the conman asked, swinging his duffle bag over his shoulder. Glanni had remained tense throughout their voyage, and although Íþróttaálfurinn had pushed the balloon as quickly as possible to their destination, it had still taken most of the day. Now the sun hung low and heavy over the skyline, bathing the city in golden light. The elf could feel the exhaustion of magic use compounding with how late he had stayed up the night before. He would need to get a full night’s sleep if he planned to effectively gather information from the police department tomorrow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In contrast, Glanni seemed ready to go. He had always thrived on late nights, and Íþróttaálfurinn knew his friend well enough to be able to read the bags under his eyes for what they were. Whatever else Glanni had been up to lately, he hadn’t been sleeping well. Chronic insomnia combined with a busy schedule had created the sort of manic exhaustion that characterized some of Glanni’s most dangerous plans. Íþróttaálfurinn was worried, but he figured that, if the conman was here with him, he’d at least be able to prevent things from going too far. They might as well use that energy while it was available.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The city council has provided me with a room at the Holiday Hotel in midtown.” He passed Glanni a key card. “I haven’t checked in but it’s on the seventh floor, room 700.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ew, right in midtown?” Glanni pulled a face. “Talk about conspicuous.” It would be convenient for Íþróttaálfurinn but Glanni would probably have to travel quite a ways to the outskirts of the city in order to access the poorer and less policed areas of town. There were some uptown venues which the hero suspected the conman planned to charm his way into, but he knew that most of Glann’s friends kept to low places. The murders had occurred in seemingly random parts of Busy City and the women who had been killed seemed to have little in common. Some of the victims hadn’t even been human.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There were a few tenuous whispers of common threads floating around, but it was difficult to tell whether they were any more than simple coincidence. All of the women had been middle aged or younger, the youngest having been a twenty one year old college junior. All but one had lived in Busy City for most of their lives, and all of them had been in noisy public places at their time of death. That hardly narrowed it down. The profile fit countless women, and Busy City had a population of nearly six million. This alone had greatly contributed to the fact that it had taken so long for the killings to be recognized as the work of one killer rather than several unrelated crimes. Had it not been for the distinct execution style then the killer might never have received a profile at all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That was another mystery. Why use such a distinctive method? There were easier and far less conspicuous methods of committing murder, and if the point was to make a statement to the public at large then why hide in the shadows as much as they had? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Íþróttaálfurinn had two theories; the first was that the killer was aiming to scare people away from Busy City’s nightlife. Since the killings had started, all concerts had been postponed or changed their venues, most nightclubs had seen a decrease in attendance, and many of those clubs had increased their security drastically. Even theatrical productions had seen a dip in ticket sales for evening performances. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His second theory was that there was something about these specific women that motivated the killer to seek them out. Some unknown common trait that was being used to justify each of their deaths. Íþróttaálfurinn's initial contact from the Busy City police had implied that this was the predominant theory amongst the force, but the conversation had been so brief and contained so little detail that he wondered if they had any more information on the killings at all. Over his career as a hero he had learned that human authorities were often reluctant to admit their own weaknesses. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Numbered Heroes usually worked amongst themselves, collaborating with police forces only when necessary.  Technically speaking, they were protectors who worked outside of human governments, upholders of health and safety rather than law enforcement. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The emphasis on safety over legality was what made it acceptable for him to work with Glanni. Elven heroes had worked with far more heinous villains for the sake of the greater good, and if he was collaborating with the conman that meant that Glanni</span>
  <em>
    <span> should</span>
  </em>
  <span> be unable to cause much harm while under Íþróttaálfurinn's supervision. At least, that was how the elven council justified their occasional partnership. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Glanni managed to prove the council wrong for having faith in them within their first five minutes in Busy City. While Íþróttaálfurinn had been tying his balloon off on the roof of a municipal parking garage, Glanni had wandered into the garage’s dilapidated elevator and promptly vanished, leaving Íþróttaálfurinn to search aimlessly around the garage’s roof before finally giving up and making his way downstairs. He emerged onto the street just in time to catch the conman reaching for an unsuspecting tourist’s wallet, which was tucked carelessly in the man’s back pocket as he tried to take a picture of a nearby landmark.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The hero leapt into a back handspring and somersaulted across the sidewalk, intentionally drawing every eye to himself before landing with flourish beside Glanni. The conman reeled back, abandoning his prey with a flinch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hallo Glanni! Where did you go?” Glanni glared viciously as the mark, who was dressed in the most hideous pair of bermuda shorts the hero had ever seen, turned to look curiously at Íþróttaálfurinn.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought I’d explore a little,” Glanni replied, still glaring. “I knew that you’d catch up eventually.” The conman sulked, which Íþróttaálfurinn made a point not to mention, instead putting an arm around Glanni’s shoulders and steering him away from the bewildered tourist. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ll have plenty of time to get used to the neighborhood tonight,” Íþróttaálfurinn assured his friend. Glanni leaned into him, pushing himself against the hero like an affectionate cat despite his frustrated expression. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I might as well get the lay of it in the dark,” the conman conceded. “That’s when I’ll see most of it anyway.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s the spirit” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you think there's anywhere in this neighborhood where you and I could both grab a quick dinner?” Glanni loomed over Íþróttaálfurinn, the combination of his natural height and his ridiculous boots making the hero seem short by comparison. “Because the last time you chose where we ate,  I distinctly recall vowing to never go into another of your awful health food vegan restaurants again.” It had been a smoothie bar that had also served salads and vegan wraps. Íþróttaálfurinn smiled at the memory. Bringing Glanni there had been entertaining. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We might be better off looking for a grocery store.” Íþróttaálfurinn’s dietary requirements often clashed with Glanni’s picky eating. They’d managed as well as they could at the diner, but Glanni was the only one who’d eaten anything substantial. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think it would be better if we drop our stuff at the hotel and then split up.” Glanni frowned. Normally they would have taken the time to seek out a restaurant that could accommodate both of their dietary needs—Busy City was a large metropolis that hosted a variety of such places if they were to take the time to look—but the nature of their information gathering methods would have necessitated splitting up at some point anyway. Íþróttaálfurinn nodded and pulled Glanni into the direction of their hotel. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Glanni left him in their hotel room just after seven in the evening, dressed to kill and as energetic as he could manage. Once alone, Íþróttaálfurinn ate a dinner of dried fruits and nuts that he'd kept in his pack. The thought of venturing out into the crowded city to find something to eat was too much to even contemplate. Instead he took advantage of the larger, nicer hotel room to do some stretches before beginning a light bodyweight fitness routine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he worked out, his thoughts drifted to Glanni. He wondered where his friend was, and who he sought information from. Between breaths he hoped that Glanni was being safe and not acting recklessly. Their partnership was not new. Íþróttaálfurinn knew from experience that he could rely on the conman to do his best to follow through with his part in their plan, but the hero was not sure that Glanni had ever fully understood that most schemes weren’t worth risking his life for. For all of his exaggerated cowardice, Glanni had put his safety on the line more than once for arguably trivial reasons. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Íþróttaálfurinn frowned, moving to the floor and tucking his feet beneath an armoire to begin a set of sit-ups. Whether or not Glanni valued his own safety, Íþróttaálfurinn knew that his friend was a hedonist, valuing his own pleasure above nearly everything else. It made his recent behavior even more puzzling. The hero hadn’t even realized that Glanni was capable of hard work, neither the attention span nor the dedication came easily to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As Íþróttaálfurinn finished with his sit-ups and moved on to a final set of push-ups, the hero wondered again </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span> Glanni had been working himself to the bone, burgling house after house for several consecutive nights. His usual pattern involved grander schemes with larger payoffs that would allow Glanni to lay low and live comfortably for months at a time. Even one of the home robberies should have been enough to keep the criminal satisfied for at least a couple of weeks. Íþróttaálfurinn suspected that this change of pattern was due to a sudden need for a large amount of money. He hoped that Glanni hadn’t become indebted to someone, but even as he thought it, Íþróttaálfurinn doubted that there was anyone in the world that Glanni would honor a debt to. It simply wasn’t his friend’s style to pay his dues. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally finishing his workout, Íþróttaálfurinn stepped into the bathroom to wash up before bed. He splashed some cold water on his face, then  brushed his hair and teeth, his thoughts still lingering on Glanni and his potential plans. The reward for catching this serial killer would normally have meant a long vacation for his friend, and the hero wondered what else he could have in mind for their reward. Like most elves, Íþróttaálfurinn had little use for money, only using it while staying in human settlements. He’d gladly let Glanni take it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The only thing Íþróttaálfurinn really wanted was for the job to be done. The idea of just leaving a killer on the loose disquieted him. The only consolation was that he had managed to convince Glanni to join him. It had been several months since their last partnership and he had found that he’d missed the conman despite himself. In truth, he missed him now. Now that he was alone, the spacious hotel room felt confining, boxed in on every side by the press of urban humanity. Despite the fact that he loved to socialize, it was intimidating to be completely surrounded at all times.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On some level, Glanni was like him. The companionship of another person who lived outside the bounds of human society gave Íþróttaálfurinn more comfort than he could express. When Glanni was with him, he had someone who understood what he was and why he behaved the way that he did. It was better than any tangible reward that Íþróttaálfurinn could have asked for. With a sigh, Íþróttaálfurinn flipped toward the bed, the last thought running through his mind as he sailed through the air, pillow-bound, was the hope that his friend wasn’t already getting himself into too much trouble.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Busy City miiiggghhhttt kind of be NYC, but scaled down and mushed for my purposes</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Night and Day</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Clues are analyzed, Glanni bleeds</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I got stuck on the plot of this chapter so I had to add a little drama</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Their days went like this,</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Glanni returned early each morning, exhausted and often covered with glitter. Sometimes he had a lead or an otherwise useful rumor that he’d been able to follow through the dizzy chaos of the night, sometimes he did not. Sometimes he came back to their hotel with bruises. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They ate breakfast together, Íþróttaálfurinn pulling from a small collection of groceries that he’d started to maintain and Glanni from whatever greasy fast food bag that he had dragged inside with him. They went over the new information while they ate, the dawn light filtering through the curtains as the city woke around them. Over cheap coffee and herbal tea they planned Íþróttaálfurinn’s goals for the day, laying out schedules for meetings with the city council, daylight investigations of the crime scenes, as well as attempted questionings of witnesses and other persons of interest. Often Glanni’s leads were followed up by the hero during daylight hours. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Most days Íþróttaálfurinn ventured out alone to complete their daytime agenda, but it was not rare for Glanni to accompany him for at least part of the formal investigation. The conman found himself employing a combination of partial disguises and potent energy drinks in an attempt to play the role of a functioning member of society. Íþróttaálfurin often found himself caught between entertainment and concern as Glanni’s methods were only ever partially effective. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In turn there were also some nights when Íþróttaálfurinn followed his friend out into the glittering nightlife. With the hero acting as anonymous muscle, Glanni conned his way past security into smoky back rooms and glittering galas, pulling vital information out of seemingly innocuous small talk. It was obvious that the silence necessitated by this role grated upon the hero, but when Glanni put a metaphorical finger to his lips he found himself more than able to shut up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Between the two of them they’d made more progress in a week than the Busy City police had made in two months. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first thing that became clear was that it was unlikely that anyone had illegally purchased a silencer in the Busy City metropolitan area for at least a year. Glanni had sought out every arms dealer in the area and not only questioned them, but plied their employees and acquaintances with sweet words and strong drinks. The conman had confidence in his own methods, and even the most secretive of sellers would have a hard time completely escaping notice. Glanni concluded that whoever was carrying out the killings had either owned his equipment for a long time, or had made his purchases outside of city limits. It was more of a dead end than a clue. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next thing that they’d learned was that the killer was either not connected enough to have heard about their investigation of the murders, or that he simply didn’t view them as enough of a threat to take action against. Glanni and Íþróttaálfurinn hadn’t received so much as a warning to back off despite their lack of subtlety. Threats and attempts to chase him off were the norm for Glanni, who made a habit of sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. The killer’s failure to respond was a surprise. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a clue in and of itself that this killer was like a ghost even among the extensive criminal network that made up Busy City’s underground. A frustrating clue, but a clue nonetheless. It ruled out countless potential suspects and suggested that whoever the killer was, they might otherwise be a normal citizen without typical underworld motivations. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Íþróttaálfurinn woke at dawn without fail, rising with the sun and moving immediately to wake himself up. He’d taken to utilizing the hotel’s gymnasium in the early hours while it was mostly unoccupied, but on this particular day he’d stayed in. Some days his need for privacy outweighed his desire to use modern exercise equipment. Instead he’d stayed in their room and begun his day by exercising the old fashioned way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smelled the blood before he saw him. Glanni had slipped in through the door quietly, his boots in his hands and a sticky dark patch running down his side. As Íþróttaálfurinn turned, his eyes traced the blood to its source just below his friend’s ribcage. At first glance it was difficult to tell whether it was a gash or a deep puncture, but it took less than a second for the hero to move closer, his hands carefully pulling away the sticky black cloth of Glanni’s shirt while the conman stuttered and flinched, pulling away. Íþróttaálfurinn heard none of his, focused on guiding Glanni over to the bed and sitting him down, oblivious to any sound other than the pounding of his own heartbeat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It wasn’t really a lot of blood, the hero reasoned as he washed his hands, his reflection pale in the bathroom mirror, but who knew what other injuries that his friend could be hiding under his clothes. He pulled a first aid kit from his bag and set to work. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Predictably, Glanni resisted him, literally growling at the hero the first time he tried to pull the shirt over his head, but when Íþróttaálfurinn threatened to cut the garment off the conman relented. He winced as the movement pulled at his wound, and Íþróttaálfurinn watched grimly as fresh blood dripped down the pale skin of Glanni’s torso. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thankfully it did seem to be a shallow gash, long and clean. Whatever had happened, Íþróttaálfurinn reasoned that it was likely a near miss. The wound was intentional and he had no doubt that whoever had inflicted it would have been more than willing to inflict grievous harm upon Glanni. He poured a generous amount of rubbing alcohol onto a piece of gauze and proceeded to sanitize the wound mercilessly. Above him Glanni cursed, but made no further move to resist. Instead the conman brought a sticky hand to Íþróttaálfurinn’s head and curled his fingers around the hero’s hair, holding to him like an anchor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once the wound had been sanitized, Íþróttaálfurinn pressed the raw flesh carefully together, his eyes trained on the edges of the cut as the bleeding slowed. Together, he and Glanni took a shaky breath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What happened?" He asked,  his voice seemed too loud in the otherwise silent room. Glanni's chest fluttered up and down against his fingers,  the white of his skin cool and clammy. Íþróttaálfurinn carefully placed a butterfly bandage on the left side of the cut before reaching for another.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I've been asking a lot of questions," Glanni rasped. "Someone decided that I'd asked one too many."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The hero knew enough about treating injuries to know that his friend was in no real danger. The conman hadn't lost nearly enough blood to go into shock, and there hadn't been any visible contaminants in the wound. It was most likely the result of a small sharp blade in the hands of an irate and violent person. Such things could cause real danger, but only if you couldn't escape the assailant before they managed to land a good hit. Glanni had always prided himself on his timely escapes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, it must have hurt, and Íþróttaálfurinn wondered just how long ago the attack had occurred. The thought of Glanni stumbling back to their hotel alone in the dark haunted him. A light sheen of sweat covered his friend’s pale face, Íþróttaálfurinn reached a bloodstained hand up and rubbed slightly at the smudged mascara running at the corner of one gray eye with his cleanest finger. For once, Glanni didn’t flinch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who were you questioning?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked, pulling his hand away to reach for another butterfly bandage, one hand still on the wound.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A mobster,” Glanni replied, his voice flippant. “I don’t think he’s important, just defensive.” He paused, grimacing, as Íþróttaálfurinn pressed the next bandage to his torso. “We’ve exhausted pretty much every resource downtown. None of the locals seem to know what’s going on and most of them are just as spooked as the cops.” Íþróttaálfurinn heard the frustration in his friend’s voice but said nothing, concentrating on his task. “Either you and I keep sneaking into galas, or we need to find a new method. I think we might have hit a dead end.” The statement was characteristically pessimistic but Íþróttaálfurinn had to admit that the conman had a point. They’d narrowed a few things down, but found very few promising leads. Perhaps it was time to change tactics.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You say he got defensive," Íþróttaálfurinn said. "What happened?" He hoped that the attack had been a warning rather than an outright murder attempt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I </span>
  <em>
    <span>might</span>
  </em>
  <span> have implied that the boss wasn't smart enough to pull off this kind of thing," Glanni replied, shrugging his shoulders, "just to see if he'd own up out of pride" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Íþróttaálfurinn winced, only able to imagine how Glanni must have phrased such a question. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then he pulled a gun on me, and I decided that it was time to leave.” It was looking less and less likely that this incident had been anything less than an attempt on the conman’s life. Glanni at least looked a little steadier as he began to ease into telling the story. “But these two goons by the door overreacted and </span>
  <em>
    <span>they </span>
  </em>
  <span>pulled their guns on me too.” The conman smirked wanly. “Which was just rude.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, when they started shooting, I jumped out a window.” That didn’t make how Glanni had been stabbed any clearer to Íþróttaálfurinn but it definitely painted a colorful picture in the hero’s mind. Considering the circumstances it seemed like Glanni had been lucky to get out alive. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A few of the other guys chased me and one caught up while I was trying to get off the roof.” This time Íþróttaálfurinn was the one to wince “But I managed to lose him soon enough, he only stabbed me a little bit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An almost tangible silence fell between them as the hero processed his friend’s story. It painted an alarming picture, and although Glanni appeared to be mostly recovered he still had a hole in his torso. Íþróttaálfurinn carefully placed the last butterfly bandage before covering the entire area in a square piece of sterile gauze that he taped to Glanni’s skin. He hesitated before drawing his hands away and as he sat up Glanni’s hands fell from his hair. The hero mourned the contact. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You,” Íþróttaálfurinn wiped the blood from his fingers with an alcohol soaked rag, “are going to give me gray hairs.” This time Glanni smiled in earnest, fleetingly proud of himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Also, that is not a stab wound,” the hero continued. “You were slashed, not stabbed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Semantics” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“An important distinction.” Íþróttaálfurinn countered, mostly for the sake of being contrary. Standing, he put the first aid kit away before returning to sit beside Glanni on the bed, their hands resting beside one another but not touching. The conman bit his lip with an expression on his face that Íþróttaálfurinn could not read. The smeared glitter of his eyeshadow sparkled in the morning light.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Glanni.” He began, resisting the urge to reach out, to grasp the conman’s long pale hand. It would have been too intimate, too serious a gesture for Glanni to stomach. “Are you all right?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment his friend didn’t respond. There was something in his eyes, some unhappiness. If Íþróttaálfurinn hadn't known any better he might have called it longing. More likely he was still shocked by the attempt on his life. Íþróttaálfurinn was sure that Glanni had lived through attacks like these before, he’d heard about some of the more dramatic encounters and helped patch the conman up on multiple occasions, but this had been a near miss. The hero knew from experience that getting shot at was jarring enough of an experience to put someone on edge for days. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine.” Glanni said finally, looking away from Íþróttaálfurinn’s face. He lifted his hand from the bed and grasped the hero’s arm, pulling him closer. For a moment Íþróttaálfurinn resisted, but if there was anything that his friend was good at it was getting what he wanted and in less than a moment the conman had climbed onto Íþróttaálfurinn’s lap. </span>
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<p>
  <span>The hero considered stopping him. He considered telling his friend that he wasn’t in the mood or even being honest and reminding him that running away from his emotions by distracting himself with physical gratification was unhealthy. Glanni would have stopped, he would never pressure Íþróttaálfurinn into doing something that he wasn’t up for, but Íþróttaálfurinn was concerned and eager to please. If it meant that it would make Glanni feel better then he was more than willing to give in and enjoy himself. The physical intimacy would comfort the hero as well, what better method to remind him that Glanni was here and alive?</span>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>plz comment if you liked me hurting these characters and would like to see more of it in the future</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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